


Gear #00000001

by murderofonerose (atmilliways)



Category: Metalocalypse (Cartoon)
Genre: Chuckles - Freeform, First Time, How Charles got his gear brand, M/M, Mentions of Violence, Mr. Nevernude McSuit, kloktober 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:40:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27232873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atmilliways/pseuds/murderofonerose
Summary: “Hey, I didn’t know you had one’a those.”“Hm?” Still trying to catch his breath, Charles didn’t open his eyes. “One of what?”“This.” Pickles tapped on his chest, near the left shoulder, drumming out a complex little rhythm against the ridged skin. The brand was a few years old and far paler than it had been when it was still new, but clearly visible.
Relationships: Charles Foster Offdensen/Pickles the Drummer
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14





	Gear #00000001

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Kloktober 2020 day 27 prompt, "Favorite Dethklok song." The Gears, baby!

“Hey, I didn’t know you had one’a those.”

“Hm?” Still trying to catch his breath, Charles didn’t open his eyes. “One of what?”

“This.” Pickles tapped on his chest, near the left shoulder, drumming out a complex little rhythm against the ridged skin. The brand was a few years old and far paler than it had been when it was still new, but clearly visible. 

“Oh, that.” Charles was so relaxed that he almost chuckled. Instead, he brought the arm that was half trapped under Pickles up and patted the drummer affectionately on one bare hip, eliciting a pleased wiggle from the man pressed up against his side. “I forgot that you wouldn’t already know about that.”

Pickles snorted. “How could I, dood? You’ve always been Mr. Nevernude McSuit. Until, heh, y’know. Tonight.”

“Mm.” As tempting as it was to close his eyes again and go back to floating on the remaining cushion of endorphins and whatnot, Charles could tell from the curious tilt to Pickles’ head that an answer would have to be provided sooner or later. “Well, ah, of course I have one. All Dethklok employees do, it was a band decision, remember? One of the few completely unanimous ones, actually.”

“Yeah, but . . . you’re not an  _ employee.  _ You’re Charlie. You’re our buddy.”

Charles raised an eyebrow. “Thank you, Pickles, it’s sentiments like that which make me not regret breaking that ‘inappropriate conduct’ clause in my contract tonight. But I very much am an employee, and I take this job very seriously. Taking the brand myself was a, ah . . . an affirmation of purpose. It was a very clarifying experience.”

Thoughtfully, Pickles rested his chin on Charles’ chest. “What do you mean?”

His pupils were still a little blown from whatever he’d been on earlier in the day, but no more than his usual baseline, which was practically sober by Pickles’ standards. It seemed likely that he would actually remember this conversation later, so Charles decided to be honest. Might as well, anyway—he’d already bared a lot to the drummer tonight, why not this small bit of his soul, too?

* * *

_ That first time, it hadn’t been a cavernous hall of screaming would-be Klokateers with music and stage lights and a professional motivational speaker. Just a field, an undeveloped patch of land of roughly a thousand acres in the middle of nowhere on a long holiday weekend. Everyone came hooded— _ everyone _. That way no one would be intimidated by the fact that the man potentially hiring them was among them in the fights.  _

_ The rules were simple. There were two lines for random matchups; one fight at a time, so everyone could watch; the first round of losers were out, but could try again next year; and beyond that first round, the number of wins would determine the order in which brands were given and rank numbers assigned. Charles had already made a few hiring decisions in advance, to officiate, but they weren’t exempt from fighting.  _

_ They started at dawn with a crowd of around sixty people. Charles had his first fight at 7:34am, and it was over by 7:35am. By the end of the whole thing, it took him an entire eleven minutes to end the final fight and claim his right to the first brand.  _

* * *

Pickles propped himself up and stared down at Charles, eyes wide with incredulity. “Holy shit. Dood, I remember that first set of roadies. Are you telling me you beat up sixty people, and half of ‘em were built like they could be professional wrestlers?”

“Yes,” he replied mildly. “Don’t try to tell me you haven’t been in enough bar fights to know that muscle bulk doesn’t always win, I’ve seen your arrest records”

“Well . . . no, but. . . .”

“I know I may be a lawyer, an accountant, and a, ah, ‘robot butler,’ but I assure you I can hold my own in close-quarters combat.”

Pickles considered that for a moment, then broke into a lopsided grin and flopped back down half on top of him. “Dood, yer a fuckin’ badass.”

“I know,” Charles deadpanned. “If I were musically inclined, Dethklok might actually have some competition.” He didn’t so much as flinch when Pickles retaliated by blowing a very wet raspberry against his neck. 

* * *

_ He was the first to take his hood off. (Thank god for contacts.) There were a few gasps of shock, but most of them had been dealt enough bruises, broken noses, and temporarily numb limbs by him to just nod in respect.  _

_ “You all have the option to take your brand wherever you’d like.” His voice rang over the field that would eventually become the original Mordhaus grounds, where the earth had been salted with blood. “The band suggests the nape of the neck, but it’s not required as long as it will be hidden by your uniform. This mark isn’t something you wear to show the world; it’s a reminder to yourself of the place you’ve  _ earned _.” _

_ A cheer went up at that, and once the bonfire had been built up to a roar and the iron was hot, Charles pulled the black t-shirt off over his head and gestured for the brander to press it just to the left of his heart.  _

* * *

“Because, ah, directly over the heart would just be a bullseye for any halfway decent sniper,” Charles added. 

“See, okay, that. What kinda accountant-butler thinks about snipers? And how did you beat all those guys, do you know that jujitsu stuff?”

“Are you looking for a demonstration?” Without further warning, Charles hooked a leg around Pickles’ and rolled, flipping him easily onto his back and pinning him from above. “You asked about the brand; I’m still trying to tell you.”

* * *

_ The rest of them hadn’t even heard the song the band had written to go along with this ceremony, but Charles had. He thought of it as the mark was seared into his flesh with a sharp hiss.  _

We fear not our mortality  
We'll serve to the best of our ability  
We give our lives to our masters  
We vow to smite our enemies

_ He had been a lot of things before Dethklok, and all of them had served him well, brought him right to that moment. It was the first time, though, that he’d ever had the words to put to the sense of having a purpose. The words, and the music, pulsing in the new gear mark with each pump of his heart while it was bandaged up to heal. These people around him, getting the same brand one by one—he had earned their respect and they were his to command. All the blood, sweat, and tears had paid off, and his place in the world was secured. Was there anything in the world more perfect than that? _

You're here because   
You're one of us   
Become a gear   
_ Become a gear _

_ Everything had clicked. For the first time in his entire life, Charles was absolutely sure he was exactly where he was supposed to be.  _

* * *

“Wow,” Pickles said finally. “I’ve felt like that from drugs sometimes, it’s a good rush. Spiritual or someshit, I dunno.”

“And sometimes at concerts?”

“. . . At the better ones, yeah I guess.” He glanced down between them. “Heh, chief, you ready to go again just from talking about it?”

Charles shrugged over him. “It appears so. I’ve, ah, never told anyone about this before.”

“Really? Why’d you tell me?”

The answer to that was simple, and came swiftly: “Because you asked.”

Pickles didn’t seem to know how to respond to that; his cheeks and chest flushed a little, filling in the pale skin between freckles with a delicate pink. He brought his hands up and skimmed them down Charles’ sides, then back up over the well-defined muscles on his back and shoulders. This was all still new, and they had quite a bit of each other yet to explore. “So, uh, what yer saying is I could ask you for anything, and you’d do it? No questions asked?”

“When have I ever not given you everything?” Charles asked seriously, reaching between them and stroking the other man’s budding erection to full attention. 

“I don’t, eh, hmmn, can’t think of anything right now, but—”

“I’ve pledged myself to you Pickles,” he continued. This was all bubbling up unbidden, these things he probably shouldn’t say but the dam had been broken now and it was coming anyway, and it was a goddamn relief to say out loud that he hadn’t known he’d needed. Just like he had never consciously admitted to himself what he’d needed until Pickles had waltzed into his office earlier, still coming down off E or something similar, and practically painted himself into his lap. “The entire band, but also you. This is exactly where I’m meant to be, and now that I’m here I plan to take advantage of that to the fullest.”

And then he did. 


End file.
